


Under Someone Else

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Peter Parker Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-01-12 18:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18452108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Peter realizes he’s just a rebound. And he’s okay with that, really. Or at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself.





	Under Someone Else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tuesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/gifts).



> I loved the Freeform “Character mistakenly believes they're just a rebound,” so I wrote you this treat. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> This was written pre- _Endgame_ , so just assume it takes place in a post-IW AU world where IW is fixed in some manner that does not involve the things that happened in _Endgame_. (Well, maybe the hug. The hug can stay.)

Peter’s still awake, working on a problem set, when a loud banging cuts through his noise-cancelling headphones. Someone’s pounding at his door. He groans. It’s only Wednesday, a little early in the week for the party crowd.  

“Wrong room,” he shouts. And then, because people are almost always looking for the pot-dealing senior down the hall, he adds: “Jason’s in 307. The door with the whiteboard.”

“Not looking for Jason.”

His heart stops. He knows that voice. That voice does not belong in an NYU dorm at 12:45 at night. Or ever, really. “Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah, kid, it’s me.”

Peter jumps to his feet, desperately attempts to straighten the papers strewn across his desk, combs his fingers through his hair, briefly considers throwing on something more dignified than flannels and a  _Die Hard_ t-shirt, and then, deciding it’s all a lost cause, answers the door. The man who’s supposed to be his mentor blinks back at him, looking anything but mentorly: red eyes, disheveled hair, wrinkled shirt. Even his goatee’s untrimmed.

“No roommate?” he asks, shoving his way in. His eyes sweep around the space, taking in the pictures hung haphazardly on the walls — Peter is suddenly very glad he decided against putting up his old Stark Expo poster from home — the half-eaten container of Chinese food perched precariously on top of a mini-fridge, the unmade bed. This all seems strangely familiar to Peter, an echo of their first meeting: idol suddenly at his house, in his bedroom, invading his privacy. He’s never quite recovered from that initial rush.

“Uh, yeah, no roommate.” Mr. Stark should know; he’s the one who made that happen, insisting on paying for a single, because how else is Peter supposed to keep his identity a secret? “Mr. Stark, why—”

“I’m going to need you to start calling me Tony,” Mr. Stark says, voice low and rough.

“Um, what? Why?”

“Because I’m about to do this.”

Suddenly his lips are on Peter’s, pulling him into a messy kiss, insistent, teeth clashing. Peter kisses him back for a moment, reacting as if this were one of his dreams, where Tony Stark appearing in his dorm to kiss him is a pathetically normal event. Then his mind catches up to the fact that this is reality, and he pulls away.  

“What’re you—?”

“Pepper and I split.” Mr. Stark’s voice trembles as he says it, hands clutching at Peter’s sides, tugging him closer, going for another kiss.

Oh. Okay. Well, that’s an answer.

Probably not a good one, but it’s not bad enough to stop Peter from kissing back, enjoying the prickle of beard against skin. He lets Mr. Stark — _Tony_ , he tries, but it doesn’t take — navigate him to his bed and shove him onto it. He sprawls backward, barely able to believe this is happening as Mr. Stark falls on top of him, quickly disposing of his shirt.

It’s not the best sex Peter’s ever had. Mr. Stark is sloppy drunk, rough and desperate, hands greedy as they pull off the rest of his clothes, trace his muscles, stroke his cock. But it’s the most  _amazing_ sex he’s ever had, because it’s  _Mr. Stark_. Those hands belong to Peter’s dreams. His smell, the taste of his skin; it’s more than he ever imagined, and he’s imagined a lot.

Mr. Stark takes him from behind, setting a demanding pace, almost overwhelming. As he gets close he leans over and whispers in his ear, “Kid, do you have any idea how sexy you are?” and Peter comes with blinding force. A few pumps later, Mr. Stark follows.

They collapse into a pile on Peter’s bed, exhausted and drained, limbs intertwined, bodies pressed close because the mattress is so small there’s no other choice. Peter wants to say something, ask something, but his mind is too blissed-out to form the words, and shuts down before he can make a sentence go straight.

When he wakes up, Mr. Stark is gone.

***

Halfway through the next day, a courier arrives with a package. It’s a new set of web-slingers, with a note:  _Sorry about last night. Please don’t hold it against me. — Tony_

Peter lets out a desperate laugh. An apology wasn’t exactly what he was looking for.

***

Mr. Stark doesn’t contact him for the next week, and after two days of hoping, Peter decides to chalk the whole thing up to a post-breakup fluke. What’s that dumb cliché the lacrosse player down the hall likes to repeat every time someone in the dorm gets dumped?  _The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, bro_. Peter was the someone else in this situation.

“Why me, though?” he asks MJ during their weekly coffee date, after blowing her mind with the news. “He’s Tony Stark, he can hook up with anyone.”

“Because he’s just like every old white guy: totally creepy?” She sticks out her tongue before Peter can get offended. “But seriously. Isn’t he like, famously self-destructive?”

“Sleeping with me is so bad it’s self-destructive? Harsh.”

“Yeah, it’s enough to ruin anyone’s life.” She winks and shoves her half eaten scone in his direction, standing to leave. “Take this, you need it more than I do. And remember, if you ever need someone to kick his ass, I’m your girl.”

Peter finishes the scone in silence, contemplating. MJ was being her usual flippant self about the whole thing, but her usual flippant self is usually pretty observant. Maybe it was about self-destruction. He’s reminded of a night last summer, before he went to college. A Fourth of July party where Mr. Stark, clearly tipsy, had draped his arm around his shoulder and said, “Kid, don’t look up to me too much. I’m not a good role model.” When Peter had protested — something about Iron Man and  _you saved my life. Multiple times_ — he’d just gripped his arm, looked at him with a stern expression, and said, “No, really Peter. You’re better than me. I make very bad choices. I always make the worst choice. Don’t be me.”

(“Be you,” he’d added. “You’re great. You’re the best.” That’s the part Peter usually remembers.)

Maybe he’s the worst choice, in this situation. The getting under someone else saying probably has a carve-out: not your barely-legal superhero mentee. Don’t get under him. That’s a bad idea.

Well, fine. He’ll just have to make sure Mr. Stark knows this was okay. That it’s not going to change anything. Sure, it was the fulfillment of every wet dream he’s had since he was fifteen, but he can pretend it never happened. It’s so surreal, it’s hard to believe it did, anyway.

***

He decides the best way to convey that he is completely and totally cool with it is to act normal, so he shows up on time to their bi-monthly lab session at Stark Industries — part of their agreement to make the internship legit in exchange for a full scholarship to any school of Peter’s choice (and yes, Mr. Stark still occasionally takes jabs at his decision to stay in the city rather than go to MIT).

Mr. Stark raises his eyebrows when Peter enters the room, but if he’s surprised to see him, he doesn’t say anything. He also doesn’t, Peter notices, say anything when he calls him “Mr. Stark.” He just points at his latest project, an update to the Falcon wings, and tells him to take a look. Peter follows the instructions without comment, quickly getting lost in the complex blueprints.

After a few hours of working, it really does feel like everything is basically back to normal. Sure, Mr. Stark jokes less, stares intently into space around Peter’s vicinity more. But he just went through a big breakup, so being a little off doesn’t mean anything weird. Peter’s mostly relieved, and chooses to ignore the place in his chest that feels hollow and disappointed. It’s the same part that’s normally full of stupid, hopeless longing, and he’s been ignoring that for years, so it’s not much of an adjustment.

But then he burns his finger while soldering the wing joints. He’s never quite gotten the hang of this kind of intricate manual work, so his sudden gasp of pain is a common event in the workshop. It normally goes ignored, but today Mr. Stark is immediately by his side, taking his hand, raising it to examine the burn.

“It’s nothing,” Peter says, because it is. Hardly more than a singe, it’ll be fully healed in an hour. That doesn’t stop Mr. Stark from running his thumb over the burn mark. Over. And Over.

He catches Peter’s eye and brings the finger to his lips. Peter’s heart stops, then drops through the floor as Mr. Stark takes his finger into his mouth, sucking.

“I—” He can’t breathe; his entire body feels like it’s on fire. He’s suddenly so hard it hurts. “What?”

Mr. Stark opens his mouth, but only long enough to pull in another finger, sucking harder. It feels amazing, the inside of his cheeks like silk. His tongue swirls and licks until coherent thought leaves Peter’s brain.

Then Mr. Stark switches to kissing him, shoving him against one of the desks, just as rough and desperate as the first night. Hands grab his hair, rub his nipples; teeth nip his lips, bite into his neck, claiming him, firm and unrelenting, bearing down until his senses are overwhelmed. His skin lights up with every touch; he closes his eyes to try to block some of the input, a useless attempt to hold back the onslaught of pleasure and pressure. As soon as Mr. Stark’s hand brushes his cock, he’s done, orgasming with a surprised shudder.

“Sorry,” he whimpers, embarrassed, but still so turned on he can’t help but moan when Mr. Stark weaves his hand into his hair, kissing him deeply.

“It’s okay,” Mr. Stark murmurs against his mouth. “It’s really hot.” 

***

This time, it actually is the best sex of Peter’s life.

***

Afterward, as Mr. Stark presses Peter’s shirt into his hands — somehow it ended up two desks away — he says, “So, I feel like we should talk about this.”

“We don’t have to,” Peter replies quickly. He pulls the shirt on. “I’m cool with it. Obviously.”

The thing is, he doesn’t want to have the conversation talking about this would lead to. Doesn’t want to hear that he shouldn’t read too much into it. That Mr. Stark is in a bad place, that Peter can’t count on anything from him. He knows. It’s fine. Just…not out loud. Not yet.

Mr. Stark observes him closely, as if surprised by his answer. “You probably shouldn’t be ‘cool with it,’” he warns. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m bad news. Ask any tabloid, they’ll tell you.”

Peter shrugs. “Honestly, Mr. Stark, I’ve faced worse.”

Mr. Stark laughs, a small huff of a sound. “That you have.” He tosses one of Peter’s shoes at him. “But seriously, kid, you gotta start calling me Tony.”

***

The next day, Peter finds a bouquet of flowers sitting outside his dorm door when he gets back from class.  _Roses_. Freaking roses. Buried in them is a handwritten note.

_I’ll do my best not to be my worst. — Tony_

“Hey, Parker, who’s the lucky lady?” Jason the pot dealer asks as he walks by, peering at the flowers curiously.

“Uh, no one,” Peter stutters, stunned, trying to figure out what to do with this. Who sends  _flowers_? “You wouldn’t know them.”

Jason shrugs and shuffles away, interest gone. Peter stares at the flowers for another thirty seconds before finally remembering that his dorm room is a thing he can enter. He places them in the middle of his desk and stares some more.

He might be in over his head, here.

***

_flowers?! that is so extra_

_I don’t know dude, it seems kinda sweet? Maybe he really likes you_

_Ned ur so naive. he’s just feeling guilty. don’t fall for it peter_

_no offense i know you worship the guy_

_i do not!_

Both of his friends send a series of laughing emojis, and Peter gives up on the conversation. He does not  _worship_ Mr. — Tony.  _Tony_ , yeah.

Whatever Peter calls him, he doesn’t worship him. And he’s not naive, either. He just likes having sex with him. And if having sex with Peter is how Tony wants to get over Pepper, then that’s fine.

Totally, totally fine.

***

“I really shouldn’t be doing this,” Tony mutters against his ear, after calling Peter to his penthouse at 11:30 p.m. and kissing him for twenty minutes straight, an experience that’s left him dizzy and gasping with arousal.

“If you stop now, I’ll never forgive you,” Peter pants, rubbing his erection against Tony’s thigh to emphasize the point.

“When you put it like that, I guess I have no choice.”

They don’t even make it to the bedroom for the first fuck. Or the second one.

***

The third one, though, that gets there.

***

Peter tries to leave after, rolling out of Tony’s unnecessarily large and comfortable bed, muttering something about getting back to the dorm before 2 a.m., but Tony grabs his arm, hand circling firm around his wrist.

“Don’t be silly,” he says. “You should stay. If you want to.”

Peter can almost hear MJ screaming into his ear that this is a terrible idea, that he’s going to let himself get attached to something he should not be attached to, but he ignores it. It’s late, he’s tired, why wouldn’t he stay?

Tony smiles when Peter nods and scoots into his arms; it reaches his eyes. Peter resists the urge to kiss him where they crinkle around the edges. He settles for taking his hand instead.

***

He wakes up shouting, clawing into the emptiness, lungs expanding gratefully, sucking in air. It takes him a wild, panicked moment to figure out whose hands are grabbing him, trying to pull him close, whose voice is whispering that it’s okay. When his mind catches up to the moment he groans an apology, flopping back onto the pillows.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Mr. Stark — _Tony_ , Peter reminds his tired mind — strokes his hair, then rubs his temples, fingers moving in reassuring circles.

“Did I wake you up?” Peter asks, despairing. Count on him to take a good thing and make it awkward.

“No, actually.” Tony places a gentle kiss on the bit of Peter’s collarbone exposed by the old t-shirt he borrowed for pajamas. “Sleep and I haven’t gotten along in years.”

Peter laughs sadly at the ceiling. “I get that.”

“Titan?”

That would be the obvious answer, and often is, but not tonight. Tonight it was the heavy weight of a building dropped on him, the panic of being trapped, sure he won’t be able to make it out. In his dreams, he doesn’t.

He realizes he’s never told Tony about that. At first he’d been afraid he’d take the suit away again if he found out, and then — well, eventually it just hadn’t seemed like a very big deal. It faded to the back of his mind, so low on the list of bad things that have happened to him that he doesn’t think about it very often, except for moments like this.

But it feels like the kind of thing you tell the person you’re sleeping with about after you wake up screaming in their bed, so he does, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling as he recounts the sheer terror of it. The way Tony’s words had helped inspire him to keep fighting. How much he’d wanted to prove himself.

At the end, he turns to see Tony propped up on one elbow, contemplating him. “That happened when you were fifteen?” he asks, voice low, shot through with an emotion Peter can’t place.

Peter nods, shrugging. Tony runs a finger along the side of his face, tracing from forehead to chin.

“You’re amazing,” he tells him. “You know that, right? Once in a generation, no one else like you, face of the future amazing.”

Peter wants to laugh it off, roll his eyes and tell him to calm down, maybe make a joke about how he doesn’t have to go overboard just because they’re having sex. But the words catch in his mouth when Tony leans over, kisses him just under his eye, and whispers, “I mean that.”

For some reason, it makes him sad.

***

The next time they hang out, Tony brings a dinner date to them, in the form of a table on his private rooftop terrace, set with a tablecloth and candles and everything. It’s March, the air still sharp with the end of winter, but there are heaters set up around the roof, leaving it pleasantly warm, almost cozy.

“Best view in the city,” Tony explains. Best food, too, prepared and served by a smiling Italian man who looks like he’s about two hundred years old and apparently runs a tiny restaurant in the Bronx.

“I thought about getting the chef from Per Se,” Tony mentions casually, while Peter is busy melting into the most mind-blowing Carbonara he’s ever eaten. “That would’ve been flashier, but this is better.”

“Better is better,” Peter assures him. Not that he doesn’t like the idea of trying the kind of food he’s only ever dreamed of affording, but this is easily the greatest meal of his life. “You know you don’t have to impress me, right? Like, I’m sold.”

 _I’ve been sold_ , he doesn’t add. He’s been sold since the moment they met. Maybe before.

“I know,” Tony agrees with a shrug. “But I want to.”

Peter’s heart flutters. He takes a long gulp of his wine — which probably costs more than a week’s worth of groceries — to stop himself from saying something stupid. Something like,  _You’re going to kill me with this shit_. Or maybe,  _I think I’m falling in love with you_.

***

He stays the night, and when he wakes up crying, feeling like his body is drifting away into ash, Tony is there to hold him through it.

***

“Wow, this is worse than I thought,” MJ tells him at their next coffee. “He’s gone full rebound.”

“What does that mean?”

“He just got out of this big, love-of-his-life relationship, and he needs something to fill the gap,” she explains with her signature confidence: sardonic, already exhausted at the world, as if every single person is obvious and cliché. “Trust Tony Stark to have the kind of daddy issues that would make him pick you to pass the time.”

Peter pokes listlessly at his coffee. What she’s saying makes sense, but he can’t help but want to protest, defend Tony, defend what they have. Not just the sex, but the easy chatter over dinner, about science and superheroes and his classes. The moments at night, the comfort of it. The way it fits. “I don’t know. He’s really nice. Really…caring, I guess? Like he really wants me to have a good time.”

MJ rolls her eyes. “I thought you promised you weren’t going to be dumb about this,” she complains. “Of course he  _cares_ about you. And he probably does want you to have a good time. That doesn’t mean it’s not a rebound. If you’re not careful you’re going to get your heart broken. As much as I love saying ‘I told you so,’ midterms are coming up and I don’t have time to deal with your whole” — she waves her hand at him, pausing to pick a word — “mess.”

“Okay, but what if—”

“Peter, he brought a dinner  _to his apartment_. Think about it. He’s not exactly parading you around in public, right?”

He  _hadn’t_  thought about that. “So?”

“So? He’s hiding you. It’s not a real relationship. Either remember that, or cut it out.”

***

Now that she’s pointed it out, it’s hard for Peter to not notice. Their next few dates, if you can call them that, are all at Tony’s place: another late night call, another dinner on the roof, a private screening of the latest  _Fast and the Furious_ movie, which isn’t out in theaters for another two months.

At their third rooftop dinner — the Per Se chef this time, and it’s amazing, but Tony was right, not as good as the Italian guy — Peter finally works up the courage to ask why they never meet in public.

“People might start asking questions,” Tony replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Questions about how young I am?” Peter prods. He’s not ready to say what he really means: _Questions about how fast you’re moving on? About if you’re using a college freshman as a rebound?_ He’s afraid of what’ll happen if he pokes that wound.

Tony considers it. “Well, actually, yeah, the whole _The Graduate_ thing could get awkward.” He puts his fork down, looking serious. “But that’s not what I meant. I meant questions about you. Who you are. How we met. I don’t want to risk someone making the connection to Spider-Man. Not until you’re ready.”

Oh. Huh. That actually makes sense.

It’s also a convenient excuse, a voice in his mind that sounds a lot like MJ points out. Don’t be stupid.

***

As they lay next to each other that night, Tony tucked behind him, arm resting heavy across his stomach, that voice in Peter’s head won’t shut up. It keeps asking how long it will be until Tony finally works through whatever he’s working through and is ready for a real relationship, one with a person he can take out in public. How long until this same arm is holding someone who won’t raise  _awkward_  questions.

After he’s been failing to fall asleep for over an hour, Tony shifts, pulling him closer and whispering, “You okay?”

Peter starts. He hadn’t realized Tony was still awake. “Can’t sleep,” he confesses.

“Welcome to the club.” Lips brush his ear. “Want to not sleep together?”

Peter thinks he means sex. Which he does; but even better, after that he means going to the small lab that lives on the second floor of his apartment to play around with his latest suit upgrades. They examine the computer models together. Peter sits on a stool and Tony stands behind him, hands resting on his shoulders, squeezing approvingly when he has a particularly good idea, sometimes ruffling his hair.

At one point, Peter catches an error in Tony’s calculations. Tony spins the stool, stoops, and kisses him, tongue pushing between his lips: not lustful or wanting, but gentle. Tender.

“What was that for?” Peter asks, breathless, when Tony finally pulls away.

“Being brilliant,” Tony replies, spinning him back to look at the screen again. “Okay, Doogie Howser, tell me what else I missed.”

Peter smiles proudly to himself. Bet whoever comes next won’t be able to get  _that_  reaction. He ignores the pang in the back of his chest telling him that’s probably a dangerous thought to have.

He’s going to miss this when it’s over.

***

 _sounds like an excuse,_ the actual MJ tells him over text the next morning. He reads the messages under the table while Tony makes eggs and bacon, singing AC/DC to himself.

Because, yeah, apparently Tony Stark cooks breakfast. (“I only do this for people I really like, so don’t go spreading rumors. I don’t need Happy getting ideas.”)

 _Does NOT! He’s just looking out for you, dude_ , replies Ned, who has apparently become leader of the Tony Stark defense squad, which Peter appreciates.  _MJ you should be nicer. That’s his favorite person you’re talking about!_

 _he’s not my favorite person,_ Peter cuts in.  _u guys are_

_just sayin, i can still kick his ass when the time comes_

_MJ you're really scary but you can’t kick Iron Man’s ass_

_watch me_

The messages devolve into a debate about if MJ’s “badassery” is a match for Iron Man, which Peter stays out of. When he finally looks up, he catches Tony staring at him, a fond smile playing at the corner of his lips. A warm tingle runs through Peter’s body, flooding down to his toes.

Okay, that thing about Tony not being his favorite person was totally a lie.

***

“Hey, kid,” Tony says with forced casualness a few days later, as they lay naked on the couch, a sitcom playing in the background. Peter’s feet are propped on his lap; he’s massaging one of them, which Peter would say is the best feeling in the world, except he can remember the sex they just had.  _That_ was the actual best feeling in the world. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Peter’s stomach goes tight. His toes curl involuntarily. This is it. He somehow thought he’d have more warning.

“Whoa, calm down.” Tony strokes his ankle reassuringly. “That was a bad choice of words. I just wanted to let you know Pep and I are attending a fundraiser tomorrow. Together.”

Oh. Oh? He’s not really sure what that means, so he says it out loud: “Oh?”

“It’s a PR thing.” The hand at his foot goes back to rubbing, digging deep into his arch. “Prove to the shareholders we’re still friends, won’t tank the company, etcetera, etcetera. I just wanted to give you a heads up because I’m told certain corners of the internet like to make something out of nothing with this kind of thing.”

Oh. That’s actually…really sweet. Even the part of Peter’s brain that sounds like MJ can’t figure out anything else to call it.

“By ‘you’re told,’ you mean you have Friday find and report every last mention of you, right?” he teases.

“Hey, I’ve made a lot of enemies over the years. It’s for security.”

“Uh-huh.” Peter pokes at Tony’s stomach with his foot. “I’m sure you don’t keep track of how many World’s Sexiest lists you make every year _at all_.”

“This is what I get for trying to be nice? I don’t know why I bother.” Tony flashes Peter a grin and a wink before getting to work on his other foot.

***

 _asshole_ , MJ texts two days later, along with a headline from some gossip site Peter doesn’t recognize:  _Back Together? America’s Most Tumultuous Power Couple Getting Close Again_. She adds a link.

 _its just a PR thing_ , Peter types back.  _He warned me_

_you believe that?_

_Yes!_ he and Ned send at almost the same time.

But as Peter scrolls through the photos of Tony and Pepper that accompany the article, a tight knot of jealousy grows in his chest. It’s not that he thinks anything happened. But they look so comfortable, sharing an easy smile in one photo, Tony’s hand on the small of Pepper’s back in another. They look right. How often have they broken up and gotten back together? How often has someone been in Peter’s shoes while Tony bides his time, waiting for the cycle to start over?

Why hasn’t he thought of that before?

 _They’re not going to get back together_ , Ned assures him on a private text, away from MJ’s skeptical input. 

_u have literally no way of knowing that_

_You should ask him about it if it’s bothering you that much_

The worst part is, even if Tony doesn’t get back together with Pepper,  _Peter_  is still not going to be the one who takes her place. Not like this, not on the front page of a website, attending a fancy event. His hands tremble as he scrolls through the photos again. Tony looks amazing in his tux, and even though nothing about the fundraiser actually seems fun, something deep in him longs to be the one by his side. They could joke about how boring it is, Peter could run interference when the fawning business people Tony is always complaining about bother him. The article says he and Pepper were spotted dancing. Peter’s not very good at dancing, but he has a feeling he’d like it with Tony.

And that’s never going to happen.

It’s getting harder to convince himself he’s fine.

Ned’s right, he probably should talk to Tony. Instead, he goes patrolling, and when he gets a text asking if he’s free, he doesn’t respond.

***

Turns out patrolling while really upset about your love life is not a good idea. Peter’s so distracted that an overly aggressive car thief manages to land a few blows square to his chest with a tire iron. He takes the guy down and webs him up, but trying to swing away makes his body scream, so he drags himself home on the subway, ignoring the people who point and try to take selfies with him. He’s not in the mood.

By the time he gets back to his dorm, he just wants to pass out. Instead, he finds Tony sitting on his bed, arms crossed, looking grim.

“What—how’d you get in here?” he asks, even though  _Tony Stark_ managing to break into his dorm room isn’t exactly a hard thing to imagine. “No, wait, let me try again. _Why_?”

“You didn’t answer my text. Then Karen sent me an alert—”

“She  _did_?” When Peter turned eighteen, he’d agreed to still let Karen signal Tony when he was in trouble.  _Real_ trouble. “That was supposed to be for emergencies.”

Tony shrugs. “She thought it might be an emergency. Then it wasn’t, which is why I’m here and not beating some car thief senseless on the Lower East Side.”

“I’m gonna talk to her about what counts as an ‘emergency,’” Peter grumbles. He staggers over to his desk chair and collapses into it with a groan. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

Tony looks offended. “You’re hurt, of course I’m here.”

He slides off the bed and comes to Peter’s side, kneeling and pressing the middle of his suit. It opens and crumples; before Peter realizes what’s happening, Tony has tugged it down, exposing the bruises across his chest. He hisses, then grabs a bag Peter hadn’t noticed from under the desk, rummaging through it, pulling out cotton balls and a bottle of white cream.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, incredulous, “did you bring a  _first aid kit_?”

“Yeah,” Tony confirms, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to do. He pours the cream onto the cotton balls and dabs at Peter’s wounds. “Now shut up and let me take care of you.”

“Nice,” Peter grumbles, but he has to admit, he immediately feels better. Whatever’s in that bottle is some kind of numbing cream — probably proprietary, because he’s never heard of something that works like this. Every place it touches is instantly soothed, pain receding, muscles warm. Pretty soon he’s stretching in the chair with an involuntary, content hum.

“Stuff works, right?” Tony says, sounding satisfied. “I just finished developing it last week.”

“Knew it,” Peter mumbles. It’s all making him feel very relaxed and — floaty? Yeah, floaty. “You’re good. You’re very good. Mr. Tony Stark, good at inventing things. Never woulda guessed.”

“I’ll send you a bottle,” Tony tells him with a chuckle, patting his knee. “But for now, it sounds like it’s time for you to go to sleep.”

Suddenly, strong arms are scooping him out of the chair and placing him in his bed, pulling covers over him. A kiss lands on his forehead. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt this safe. Definitely not since Titan.

As Tony whispers goodnight and shuts off the light, Peter almost replies, “I love you.” He catches himself just in time, and then has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from crying.

***

“Dude, did I see  _Tony Stark_  leave your room last night?” Jason asks when Peter emerges from his room the next day, towel wrapped around his waist. He wanted to spend all day hiding under a pillow, overwhelmed, but he can’t avoid needing the bathroom forever, and he feels grimy and sticky from patrolling.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” he replies.

In the shower, he turns the water as hot as it goes, sinks to a crouch, and sobs, letting the sound of droplets hitting the tiles block everything else out. His body feels numb and broken, scooped empty, and he doesn’t think it’s from his injuries. 

He’s definitely, definitely in over his head.

***

Sitting on his bed, drying, he texts Tony:  _this is getting to be too much for me. i need a few days apart. or like a week maybe? if thats okay_

 _Or maybe forever_ , he doesn’t add. That hurts too much to think about.

Even so, he knows texting is a super not cool way to handle this. But he’s not sure he could say the words out loud. Besides, if they met in person, they’d definitely end up fucking.

When his phone starts ringing a minute later he ignores it.

***

 _good for u_ , MJ tells him over text. It doesn’t feel very good.

***

The next day, the tabloids show Tony outside a restaurant, flirting outrageously with a redhead. Grinning as she touches him, putting his hand on her waist, whispering in her ear. Looking happy and relaxed, as if he couldn’t care less that Peter doesn’t want to see him right now. As if it’s the furthest thing from his mind.

Peter throws his phone across the room, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, and wills himself not to cry again.

After he finally drags himself out of his bed to pick up the phone, he texts MJ:  _u were right_

 _i can still kill him_ , she offers.

***

They settle for a night getting drunk at a party thrown by a friend-of-MJ’s-friend, who has a loft in Bushwick. A girl with a half-shaved head and a nose ring flirts with Peter. She’s really, really cute, and, remembering the saying about how to get over someone, he thinks about going for it. It’s not like he and Tony have any actual agreement, here. They never said they wouldn’t. Tony very well might have. But every time her hand brushes his arm, all Peter wants is Tony’s touch instead.

The problem, he realizes, is he doesn’t want to get over him at all.

He ducks out of the conversation with a stammered apology, and tells MJ he’s going home. She tells him he’s an idiot.

***

Walking back to the subway, he realizes he has another missed call from Tony. He knows he shouldn’t call him back, but he’s too drunk to resist.

“What do you want?” he says as soon as the phone picks up.

“Peter! I’ve been going crazy here. What happened? Please talk to me—”

“Why?” he can hear himself whining, but he doesn’t care. “Don’t you have that redhead to talk to?”

Okay, that sounded more cutting in his head, but it gets the point across. He hangs up before Tony can reply, and turns off his phone entirely when it starts ringing again.

***

When he wakes up the next morning, head pounding, there’s a box outside the door. He takes it in and opens it. There’s three bottles of the numbing cream, along with typed instructions for safe use, and then a second, hand-written letter.

_I’ve given Friday permission to contact Karen when I’m having an emergency. Seemed unfair that I was the only one able to keep tabs. If you don’t care, that’s fine, tell Karen and Fri will shut it down. I just want to fix whatever’s bothering you. — Tony_

_P.S. Please call me. If you want. Please?_

_P.P.S. That woman is an old acquaintance. I was just trying to be polite. Nothing happened, I promise._

_P.P.P.S. I want you to be the one where I finally make it work. You get that, right?_

Peter reads it. He reads it again. He takes a picture and sends it to Ned and MJ.

 _Rebound???_ he adds.

He doesn’t wait to see what they have to say before slipping on his web-slingers and mask and taking off toward Tony’s penthouse.

***

Once he gets there, disheveled and a little chilly from swinging without his suit, he texts Tony to meet him on the roof and then waits, staring across the city. The sun glances off the glass of the nearest buildings, glittering. It really is a great view. He’ll miss coming up here if this conversation goes south.

After a few minutes, he hears footsteps come up behind him and stop a few feet away. He smells alcohol.

“You’re giving me whiplash here, kid,” Tony says, but he doesn’t sound mad about it. When Peter turns around, he’s met with an expression of naked hope.

“You want me to be the one where you finally make it work?” The words are already engraved on his heart, permanently memorized from the number of times he’s repeated them to himself on the way over.

Tony blinks, then nods. “Not my most well-crafted line. But it’s true, if that counts for anything.”

All Peter can do is laugh, incredulous, brain attempting to find a response. Finally, it settles on: “What about Pepper?”

“What about her?” Tony looks genuinely confused.

“You break up, you get back together. Over and over.” Peter waves his arms to emphasize the point. “Isn’t  _she_ the one you want to make it work with?”

Tony sighs, slumping a little. “Once upon a time,” he agrees, suddenly sounding exhausted. “Not anymore.” His eyes narrow. “Wait, is  _that_ what this is about? I tried to warn you, people’ll leap on anything. It’s the whole reason I’ve kept you out of the spotlight.”

“And the redhead?” He’s not even sure why he asks, it’s not like he doesn’t believe the note. Maybe he’s just putting off the questions he’s been avoiding. The ones that could end this, right now.

“I told you, that was nothing. She’s the daughter of a board member. She flirted, I smiled. That’s my life, it doesn’t mean anything.” Tony brings a hand to his head, massaging his temples. “Since when do you follow that garbage?”

“I—” Peter cuts off before trying to defend himself. It isn’t really about the tabloids. It runs deeper than that. “It’s not just that.”

Tony turns up his palms. “Care you enlighten me? Because I have to admit, I thought I was actually doing pretty well so far, give or take a little AI enhanced stalking. Which wasn’t even really about this,” he waves between them, “as much as my general tendency to paranoia, and I think you know that. So I’m a bit lost about where I’m going wrong, here. Too fast? Is that it? It seemed like you liked that.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Peter says immediately, because it’s so, so true. He pauses, trying to sort his thoughts into something coherent, an explanation for why he’s backing away from what feels, in the moments where he lets himself forget reality, like the best thing that’s ever happened to him. “You’ve been great. You’re right, I like it. That’s the problem.”

Tony opens his mouth as if he’s about to argue, and then frowns as he processes the comment. “I’ve gotten a lot of complaints over the years, but ‘too great’ is a new one.”

“I just.” Peter sighs. No more putting it off. “I can feel myself falling for you. Like, really falling for you. And I’m not sure I can deal with being a rebound anymore.”

The shock on Tony’s face is enough to make Peter reconsider everything he’s thought about any of this. “What idiot said you were a rebound?”

“My friends,” Peter admits. And then, because that makes him sound hopelessly immature, he adds, “Also logic. And you, kind of.”

“ _Me_?” Tony shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember saying something that stupid.”

Peter thinks back to their first time, in his dorm room. It wasn’t very long ago, but it feels impossibly far away. “The first time we hooked up,” he explains. “I asked what was happening, you said you and Pepper had just broken up.”

“Jesus.” Tony rubs his eyes. “I’m the idiot.” He takes a few steps forward, close enough to grab Peter’s hands with a light, reassuring grip. “I should’ve insisted we talk about this.”

Peter’s mouth suddenly feels dry. He licks his lips.  _I really want you to be the one where I finally make it work._  Tony had written that. And now here he is, holding Peter’s hands, looking at him like he’s the only thing worth looking at in the whole world. “Oh?” is all he manages to say.

“Yeah.” Another step forward, a gentle squeeze of his fingers. “Because I could’ve told you the whole reason Pep and I split was you.”

“Um.” Peter’s heard o _f having your heart in your throat._ For the first time, he understands what it means. “What?”

“Well, she didn’t know it was you.” Tony stops, thinking about what he just said. “Actually, she probably did, or at least suspected. She’s smart. Either way, I fell for you. I tried to deny it, then get over it, but I couldn’t.”

He leans forward, voice pitching lower. “I’m pretty good at not facing reality, but there were only so many times I could barely resist throwing you over a lab desk before I had to admit to myself what was happening. That’s why Pep and I broke up. Or at least it was the last straw in a long, long list of straws that probably should’ve broken the camel’s back years ago.” He moves his hands to Peter’s face, palms spreading warm across his cheeks. “Sorry, that was convoluted. Point is: yeah, kid, I’m kind of all in on you.”

Peter tries to process this, lightheaded. Part of him wonders if he’s dreaming. “But,” he protests, “then why were you all ‘I shouldn’t be doing this’?”

Tony laughs, but his eyes are sad. “I don’t exactly trust myself with people I care about. If I were a less selfish person, I would’ve left you alone. That would be better for you.” He gives that lopsided smile of his. “I tried, I did. But I quickly realized I’m actually a very selfish person, so I had to settle for second best.”

“Oh.” Peter almost can’t follow; it just doesn’t seem real. “What’s second best?”

Tony presses their foreheads together. “Doing my damnedest to deserve you.”

Peter could swear his heart literally stopped beating at those words. He honestly feels like it’s hard to stand.

“So…” He clears his throat. It’s almost dumb to ask what he’s about to ask, but he needs to hear it out loud. “I’m not a rebound?”

“No, no you are not,” Tony confirms with an indulgent smile. He pulls back far enough to bring Peter’s hand to his lips, turning it over to kiss the palm, then the inside of his wrist. “You’re…what’s the opposite of a rebound? A…bound? That’s not right. Whatever it is, that’s what you are.” He grasps the back of Peter’s neck. “Peter, I’m crazy about you. And I’d like nothing more than for you to let me keep doing my best not to fuck this up.”

“You’re not mad at me?” Peter whispers, awestruck. Tony shakes his head.

“You’re going to have to try a lot hard than this to make me mad at you.” A kiss on his forehead, then his cheek. “So, what do you say? Should we start over, cards on the table this time?”

Peter nods. He feels like he’s vibrating. “If cards are on the table, then you should probably know I’m in love with you.”

“Ditto.” Tony pulls him closer, body to body, arms wrapping him in a reassuring embrace. It feels like home. “If that wasn’t already clear. I’m definitely, definitely in love with you. And I’m going to tell you every day, for as long as you’ll let me, so there’s no more confusion about it.”

Their lips meet, and the part of Peter that has been echoing, hollow and sad, suddenly feels full.  

He can’t wait to tell MJ how wrong she was. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is very much appreciated and cherished.
> 
> Re-dated because this was an exchange fic, and now authors have been revealed. Sorry if you'd seen it already!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[vid] I see you (time-travel au)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966171) by [strangest_love](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangest_love/pseuds/strangest_love)




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